Tales and Sketches.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 38, 14 October 1871, Page 16

Tales and Sketches.

MBS BANWELL’S LEGACY, [From Chambers’s Journal.] Mrs Banwell was a widow ; doubly so, indeed, for she had ‘ planted’ two husbands — item, a retired butcher, and item a small money-lender. Each had borne fruit after his kind ; and Mrs Banwell lived comfortably on the produce, about four hundred a year. We called her, perhaps rather unkindly the Yampire. Yet there was one thing we could not but admire about the widow —she was so consistent. There was no nonsense about her, no hypocrisy, nor affectation of fine motives. We had known her as a ‘ girl’—well, say of seven or eight and thirty, buxom, comely, and with capacity for making herself exceedingly agreeable when she chose. She never made any secret of her intentions ; she doted on old men, and would marry an old man —or two, if needful—to obtain a respectable maintenance and due provision for the future. There was no reliance to be placed in young men, she used to say (regarding them in the light of an investment) ; no knowing how they would turn out; whether, having money, they would not risk and lose it; or having none, if they would ever push their way on to fortune. It was a great speculation to marry a young man ; and not being of a speculative turn of mind, she preferred the more solid investment of a comfortable old gentleman who had been through the world, gathered up his earthly dross into the Three per Cents, and only wanted a companion to see him home the last mile or two through this vale of tears. So she married the butcher. All butchers are mortal; but old butchers, accustomed all their lives to the blue serge smock and the dangling steel, when they retire, go out of business, out of their element, and out of the world nearly together. With nothing more to kill there was nothing more to five for, so the retired butcher retired for good. The butcher died; and, after decently mourning his loss for two years, and settling up his affairs, his relict became Mrs Banwell.

Three per Cents killed Mr Banwell. Deprived of the risk and excitement attached to lending small sums, and discounting bills at exorbitant rates, and receiving nothing but steady, fixed, half-yearly payments of three per cent, broke his heart. He would gladly have returned to business, but had sold his connection ; and he possessed neither aptitude nor liking for any other sort of monetary buiness than his own particular walk, and he was too old to commence again in that in some other town. There was little left for him to do but to die ; which after mature reflection, he did. Mrs Banwell had done her duty by both husbands. She had been kindly and affectionate, and had proved a most agreeable companion to smooth the declining years of each. She had spent the evening of their days with them, seen them home; and having herself returned to the world, she lived on the two dead men. That was why we called her the Yampire. Her first husband, the butcher, had no immediate relatives who felt themselves aggrieved at the disposition of his property. The widow took her third share, whilst the remainder was distributed among the distant relations. In Mr BanweH’s case, however, his widow received, by the will, two-thirds of the estate real and personal of which he died possessed, whilst the residue went to deceased’s nephew, Mr Loney, wharfinger of St. Katherine’s Docks, London, who had always been brought up to consider himself heir to his uncle’s entire property. Of course, Mr Loney was not well pleased on first hearing of his uncle’s marriage ; but frequent visits had convinced him that Mrs Banwell was a very affable and agreeable sort of person, whom it was desirable moreover to ‘ keep in’ with. So they had always been on friendly terms. Mr Loney was even less pleased on hearing the will read ; but not seeing how a rupture with his aunt could mend matters, he continued to maintain friendly relations with her. Indeed, Mrs Banwell found his services of great use in settling Mr Banwell’s affairs ; and in many difficult matters had appealed so him for advice, which he always gave in a business-like way, still, however, regarding Mrs Banwell in his heart, notwithstanding her affobility as a professional woman, who made it her business to marry old men, and live on them after they were dead, and one who, in the exercise of that profession, had ‘ done liim’ out of a considerable sum of money. We must all live—if we can —but we none of us like those who, very immediately and very obviously, live upon us. Whilst, therefore, Mr Loney fully accorded Mrs Banwell her right and title to live upon him (as he considered she was doing by receiving the largest share of his uncle’s money under the will), he did not like her any the more for it, especially as he had a wife and a large family to provide for. Yet, as he said, what is the good of a quarrel ? It would infallibly alienate any possible intentions she may have of restoring part of the money to us at her death ; or, on the other hand, it will put it out of my power to repay her in kind for the very grasping and covetous disposition I think she has evinced. Accordingly, there was no quarrel; and some four years after the death of her last lamented, found Mrs Banwell (cetat circiter fifty) retired from the profession of marrying old* people, having amassed a competence on which to live for the rest of her days in the neat and pretty cottage called Woodbury, situated just outside our town of Winterford, where she dwelt at peace with all mankind, and particularly respected by shoopkeepers, as she paid cash for everything. At this point of Mrs Banwell’s history, when a novelist would certainly have done with her, my veracious story in reality commences; the preceding portion being taken by way of a prologue necessary to its due comprehension.

About this time, an old gentleman of very unassuming habits came to Winterford, and rented a humble little cottage not far from Mrs Banwell’s more pretentious residence of Woodbury. His name was Cliatfield, a little old man, with very twinkling eyes, and a seedy wig of nut-brown hair, as palpably the work of men’s fingers as the thatch over his cottage. He must have been very old indeed —how old, I am afraid to guess —but his eyes had always a contented, and often a merry twinkle, as though secretly enjoying a joke, pukering up the very crow’s feet in spite of themselves. He was not a good looking old man, for he had a complexion like a bad medlar. He lived very frugally, and quite alone, saving for an old housekeeper who attended on him ; and seldom went out, except for half an hour’s airing on foot, when the weather was mild. His dress was remarkable only for the genteel shabbiness attained by vigorous brushing combined with long and careful wear. He had resided in Winterford quite a twelvemonth without a soul taking any notice of him except the milkman, the postman, and the few tradespeople who deemed it worth while to call for his scanty orders, when it began to be whispered that Mr Cliatfield was very rich. It was impossible to trace any foundation for the rumor ; but once started, the old man’s penurious habits, shabby clothes, and reserved demeanor, afforded to superficial inquirers, a proof that he was of a miserly turn. Folks were still speculating on the subject, when, one day, looking out of her drawing-room window Mrs Banwell saw this identical Mr Cliatfield clinging to her garden railings for support, as though taken suddenly ill. . In real alarm, the widow went out, and finding him seized with a fit, and speecliless, at once obtained assistance to convey him to his cottage. Arrived there, Mrs Banwell and those neighbors who had accompanied her, waited downstairs, in Mr Chatfield’s little front parlor, to hear the doctor’s opinion of the case. Whilst waiting, the widow regarded the room with some curiosity, to see if it afforded any evidence of Mr Chatfield’s rumored wealth. Hone apparently. The furniture was scanty, poor, and of the precise degree of sliabbiness of the owner’s clothes. The one thing distinctive about the room was that it belonged obviously to a man who had to do with ships. It was hung with shipping pictures —lithographs mostly, representing screw and paddlesteamers, with particulars of tonnage and horsepower, plans and sections of vessels, together with drawings of various clipper built barques and brigs of large size. Several models of vessels were placed about the room, and these, with the pictures, constituted the sole articles of an ornamental character, excepting, perhaps, a very old chess-board, marked ‘ History of England, in Two Yolumes ;’ and another much smaller volume of dark wood, about four inches by three, in shape and general appearance like a small Prayer-book, which occupied a conspicuous position on the mantel shelf. Presently, the doctor came down, and stated there was no cause for alarm, that Mr Chatfield would do very well, his attack having been nothing more than the result of general debility. On returning home, still thinking about Mr Chatfield and his probable connection with the shipping interest, it occurred to Mrs Banwell to write to her nephew Mr Loney, who, from his position in St. Katherine’s Docks, had largely to do with shipping. So, by way of postscript to a friendly letter, she said : ‘ By-the-bye, we have a strange old gentleman who has taken a cottage near mine—a Mr Chatfield—and a silly report has got about that he is rich. It appears he has had to do with shipping in some way, and if so, I thought it possible you might know something of him. It is the merest curiosity on my part, but one does like to know who ones neighbors are.’ Now, it so happened Mr Loney did know Mr Chatfield very well, having had a good deal to do with him in the way of business, and having also spent many pleasant evenings at the old gentleman’s house in London in past times. Tossing the letter to his wife, he said : ‘ Here’s my blessed old step-aunt, I do verily believe, looking out a step-uncle for me.’ However, after a little consideration, he wrote a reply to Mrs Banwell’s letter. The part relating to Mr Chatfield was as follows : ‘ Bespecting your inquiry about Mr Chatfield, I knew him for many years whilst he was in London, and shall be pleased to pay him my respects when I come to Winterford. I cannot ascertain the precise amount of his wealth, but this I can tell you, that although he has now renounced all active connection with the shipping interest, he is at the present time a part owner of a vessel of more than fifteen hundred tons burden. I must say no more, and even this is in strict confidence, as Mr Chatfield is an eccentric person, and particularly reticent about his affairs.’ Mr Loney was wrong in his surmise about Mrs Banwell. To do the widow justice, her intentions were not matrimonial; nevertheless, on receipt of this intelligence, she began to take a very lively interest in old Mr Chatfield’s welfare and commenced sending daily to ask after his health—a simple civility which none but the uncharitable could misconstrue, except on the ground that she had not done so before. When sufficiently recovered the old man used his first strength to call at Woodbury Cottage, and thanked Mrs Banwell for the assistance rendered him when taken ill, and for her solicitude. The widow on her part was particularly gi’acious. She chided him for keeping himself so much shut up from intercourse with other people, and told liim plainly that society was what he wanted, and what he must have. And she insisted that this his first visit was to be the prelude of a great many more. ‘ My good Mr Chatfield, you really must do as I prescribe. What are we here for in this world, if not to minister to each other’s comforts ? It will not do for you to bury yourself underground like a mole. And I do insist That whenever you feel a little dull or lonely, as

you must feel at times —a man used to active life such as yourself —that you come over here for a little cheerful change. And if you do not come often, I shall come to see you in a neighborly way and try and cheer you up. We are both of us too old for the world to talk nonsense about, and may as well be sociable. Mr Chatfield seemed unaffectedly surprised. His shrewd little eyes puzzled over Mrs Banwell’s face, to find some motive for her interest in his happiness —but gave it up. However, he at once promised to avail himself of her kindness.

‘lt is lonely at times,’ he said, £ for I have neither chick nor child belonging to me to write me a letter even. And it is the more kind of you, Mrs Banwell because I am a poor man — a very poor man, mum. But then it takes a great deal of money to make a man, don’t it mum ?’

‘ Yery true,’ asserted the widow. ‘ How much money do you think now, for instance ?’ asked Mr Chatfield.

‘ Well, really, that all depends upon circumstances of position ; but should you not think twenty thousand pounds enough to make the generality of people rich ?’ ‘ More than that, mum; that’s not enough to satisfy a man —only enough to give liim an appetite for more; and at five times that, a man would feel hungry still.’ ‘ Gracious! Mr Chatfield, you’re never contented.’

‘ That’s where ’tis, mum. You’ve hit it: no one is rich till he is content.’

* Are you content, then, yourself?’ ‘No mum, I ain’t; and what’s more, ain’t likely to be, or to meet the man who is.’ Mrs Banwell had at first thought the old gentleman was going to give her some notion of the extent of his resources, but found he was only talking in a circle, to leave off where he began, which aggravated her as much as his persistent use of the word ‘ mum.’ However, Mr Chatfield soon became a constant visitor at Woodbury Cottage, and the widow had every reason to congratulate herself on being installed in his good graces. She gave a goodly number of parties, and invited him to all of them. He always came, scrupulously neat and clean, but in a well worn dress coat, and a wig a shade better than he usually mounted, In point of fact, Mrs Banwell spent a good deal of money on the old fellow, and, what is more, thought it money well laid out. Some months passed so. Then Mr Loney came down to pay a short visit to his aunt, in the course of which he smoked his pipe more than once at Mr Chatfield’s.

From that time, Mr Chatfield became less reserved in his allusions to his own fortune when in Mrs Banwell’s company. He even admitted to her that he was, in fact, partowner in a vessel of large tonnage —and in addition to that, spoke of dividends he was receiving from another source —not obtrusively, but in the most casual manner in conversation. The reason of this change, not to make any mystery about it, was, that he had either discovered himself, or else (and more likely) Mr Loney had helped liim to discern that the lively interest the widow took in him and his affairs was not wholly of an unselfish nature. Not that he had any dread of being married, like the butcher or the money-lender, whose fate he had heard about from Mr Loney ; not at all: he saw Mrs Banwell had other notions respecting him. Those two metaphorically speaking, the Yampire had cooked before eating (Had they not both passed the fires of Hymen first?). But she did not mean to marry Mr Chatfield. It was her desire to eat Mr Chatfield raw, without any cooking. However, her victim reconciled himself to his horrible prospects with the best grace imaginable, and with the utmast docility even prepared to trus? himself ready for the Yampire’s table as follows. One day he walked into Mrs Banwell’s. sit-ting-room, apparently perturbed i» his mind. ‘ What is the matter, my dear Mr Chatfield ?’ ‘ O mum,’ he said, ‘ I’ve had some money left me.’ ‘ Surely a legacy is no cause for sorrow ?’ she remarked. ‘ It ought to be, mum, if the person who leaves it is dear enough to us to make the gift really valuable. But I didn’t say any one had left me money, but the other way —the money has left me. It is not much, but enough to worry about, and enough to remind me that, in the course of nature, I shall soon leave all my money. I am going, mum, to make my will. I have no near relative in the world ; I have outlived them all. The question is, who am I to leave it to ? What do you say ?’ ‘ Beally, Mr Chatfield—such a question—and to me —I don’t know -what to say.’ She hesitated. ‘ There are hospitals.’ ‘ Yes, mum, there are hospitals. There are also penitentiaries. But there are also friends —friends, who, though they may now see in a legacy no cause of sorrow’ ‘ Not in the legacy itself,’ interrupted Mrs Banwell, trying hard to cry, whilst in an ecstacy of delight ; ‘ but the deplorable event ■which made it immediately payable would be a cause of excruciating woe.’ ‘ Friends, mum,’ he continued, ‘ who would, we will say, see a matter of mourning in a legacy (Yes,’ he thought to himself, ‘ a matter of fifty pounds’ worth black silk and crape, and very becoming wear to a woman of her age,) but who would naturally feel slighted if deprived of such a cause of woe ; friends who have been generously kind when the world frowned upon us, and whom we can only repay by leaving them the handkerchief of affliction, with the blessed assurance that our loss is their gain. Oh, my dear mum, you’ve been a true friend to me — you know you have. Haven’t you ?’ (‘ He certainly wanders, the old silly,’ thought Mrs Banwell; ‘ but for all that, as good-hearted an old soul as ever breathed.’) ‘ But, indeed, Mr Chatfield,’ she continued aloud, ‘ you should not distress yourself thus. The only advice I can give is, that you act on

the dictates of your own generous impulses ; and if, indeed, I am so happy as to be deemed a friend, leave me at least—your regard, friendship’s dearest legacy.’ ‘Mum, you have decided me. I will at once get the matter off my mind. I have only one more favor to beg, and that is, that you will kindly honor my poor cottage with your company, and make tea for us tills evening, as I shall have the lawyer and his clerk there to execute the document.’ Mrs Banwell promised, and Mr Chatfield withdrew. When the widow arrived at Mr Chatfield’s she was shewn into the little front room by the housekeeper, who said her master would be down stairs in a few minutes. The lawyer had not come; and when the housekeeper withdrew, Mrs Banwell was left quite alone in the room. On a rickety three-legged sidetable, she espied Mr Chatfield’s desk. It was not quite shut, for there was a stiffly folded parchment, which not only prevented the desk shutting, but projected far enough to shew the nature of the document. It was undoubtedly the will, which had been sent to Mr Chatfield to read over before executing it in the evening. Listening for a minute, to satisfy herself she was safe from intrusion, Mrs Banwell gently slipped the parchment from the desk, and hurriedly skimmed it through. ‘ Dear old fellow!’ she murmured to herself when she had done ;• ‘he lias left me everything he possesses, except the furniture —all his estate real and personal, all his moneys and investments in consols and elsewhere; and, yes — a i S o his share in the large ship R. G. — “ of which,” it says, “ my executor has full aud particular information in a private letter of instructions.” And the executor is Mr Loney. Well, that is good. And what a grateful old soul!’

Hurriedly replacing the document in the desk precisely as she found it, and withdrawing to the opposite side of the room, she awaited Mr Chatfield’s avuent.

There is nothing further to say about the tea party, except that the lawyer and his clerk arrived in good time, and that after a course of muffins and crumpets, the will was executed by Mr Chatfield, and duly attested by the legal gentlemen. It was not read aloud ; but from certain obscure hints and allusions, the testator gave Mrs Banwell unmistakably to understand what she had previously ascertained by her own eyesight —namely, that she was the person principally interested in his bequests. From that time, Mrs Banwell became devoted to the old gentleman. She was to him as a daughter, as a niece, and as a grandchild. She studied his comforts, made him presents, and laid out herself and her money to please him in every way. The worst of him was, he was so tough. The butcher and the money-lender were nothing to Mr Chatfield. He only seemed to thrive and to grow younger and stronger for relinquishing his frugal habits in favor of dining three times a week at Woodbury Cottage. Yet Mrs Banwell dared not relax her attentions lest the old man shoidcl alter his will. Three orfoiu* years passed so lightly over Mr Cliafield’s head that he seemed to have taken a fresh lease of life; and the widow began to fear he would outlive her after all.

However, one winter’s morning without any premonitory illness, the old man was found dead in his bed. There was an examination, but of a purely formal kind, for that he had died of natural causes was as plain as that his life had been eked out for the past year or two, by generous diet. His death was, in truth, no very heavy blow to Mrs Banwell —it was a happy release to her as well as to him. She was getting tired of it; and her sigh at receiving the intelligence was one of heartfelt relief. Mr Loney came down to the funeral; and when that was over, the will was read.

It was all true. With the exception of the few sticks of furniture, given to the housekeeper, Mrs Banwell was bequeathed the whole of the property —moneys, bonds, securi-i ties of all sorts, and Mr Chat field’s share o the vessel. She was likewise left residuary legatee. Well, that was a comfort to the mourner, at anyrate. Mrs Banwell proceeded to ask Mr Loney for some particulars as to the property of the deceased. In reply, Mr Loney stated, with a woeful shake of his head, that the j>articulars were contained in a letter addressed to him, and this enclosed a second note to Mrs Banwell, which note, he concluded, would save him the pain of explanation. The note to the widow ran thus :

Mum— c Wliat are we here for in this world but to minister to each other’s comforts ?’ I told you I was poor, yet you ministered to mine. You are a good woman. You have done your duty. Duty is its own reward. I therefore think that, on the whole, you invested your money well. But it was a speculation, you must admit, and the security was not first-rate. I can only shew my sense of your conduct by leaving you all I have in the world. This at least shews generosity of motive on my part ; and if your kindness was really disinterested, you will take the Will for the deed. All my moneys and securities everywhere don’t amount to sixpence. My profession (ship-draughtsman and designer) enabled me to save just enough to buy a lifeannuity, which dies with me. But lam partowner of a vessel —a ship of large tonnage and great value—that share I can at least bequeath to you; and Mr Loney has my instructions to put you in possession thereof. Besides this, 1 leave you (by particidar request) my regard -—■iriendship’s dearest tribute, trusting you will not think it dearly bought.—Yours truly, lo Mbs Bajtwell. W. Chati'ield. 1 J es ’’ said L °ney 5 going to the mantelsheli ;. Oh dear, yes. It is quite right about he ship. The late Mr Cliatfield was parfcowner m a vessel of immense tonnage. And this w his part.’

He placed in Mrs Banwell’s hands a small and neat wooden volume about four inches by three, tastefully inscribed in gilt letters —‘ A Piece of the Royal George.’